Ruins of the Roosevelt
by Lee Stone
Summary: SLASH. Sam/Dean. Same city, different devil, and Sam just keeps saying Yes.


**Title**: Ruins of the Roosevelt  
**Author**: Lee Stone  
**Fandom**: Supernatural  
**Pairing**: Sam/Dean  
**Rating**: NC-17  
**Word Count**: ~2570  
**Summary**: Same city, different devil.  
**Warnings**: PWP, dubcon, spoilers through 6.14  
**A/N**: So Ordinarily prompted fic based on a photo of urban ruins and the line from Eliot, _When I count, there are only you and I together_. Romantic squalor + (isolation x codependence) = Winchesters of course. P.S.: This is not my city and I have taken a bit of geographic license.

They found a corpse with a missing face in an abandoned warehouse two blocks east of Michigan Central. The warehouse was missing its face, too, August wind gusting hot up the concrete and through its rubbled walls, rattling panes like empty gums. 7 a.m. and eighty-five degrees already. Weeds poked through heaps of cinder and plank were salad-limp, depressed in the alley visible beyond the rusty half-hinged doorway.

Dean said, "Detroit Is For Lovers."

Sam ignored him, privately thought it no coincidence that Lucifer had chosen this town to kick off his comeback tour. But that was a dangerous thought, a _wall-scratching_ thought, so he shrugged it off and bent over the body. It fit the victims' profile, black males under 30. Sam rifled through the dead guy's pockets, no wallet no phone no weapons. No suspicious items, mojo bags or amulets. No visible wounds besides the obvious. He squinted at the dark flesh puckered and torn in a ragged face-sized oval.

"Knife or teeth?" Dean asked, crouching close.

"Knife," Sam said, after a moment. "Serrated. These cuts are too shallow and even for the face to have been chewed off."

Dean nodded. "Yeah. Plus what kind of monster goes for the face and leaves the heart and guts? Nothing we've ever killed, we can rule out werewolves and rugarus-"

"Rugaru. The plural of rugaru is _rugaru_."

"Go fuck yourselves." Dean looked around, distracted. "I don't smell sulfur. You think it's witchcraft, some kind of sacrificial job?"

Sam stood. "Possible, but I doubt it. Not a lot of craft in inner cities. And there's usually some ritual traces left around the body, herbs or runes for purification, that kind of thing. They don't just take an offering and dump it in the first convenient warehouse."

"Yeah, so."

"So, somebody just...killed him. Him and four other guys in this district. Serial homicide."

"Not our beat. Sorry," Dean said, awkwardly. "We were in the neighborhood so I figured-"

"-best to check it out," Sam finished. "No, totally. It's weird, all right. Just not our kind of weird."

"Our kind of weird." A high wind curled through the gaps in the wall. Dean leaned back against an iron girder and closed his eyes. "It's hot."

"You're a little flushed," Sam told him, cautious. Fiddling with his watch, not looking at the neckline of Dean's t-shirt soaked darker than black. Sam could smell his sweat from three feet away, the tang of it at odds with the bad steak stench hanging thick in the air. "Let's get out of here. Coffee at the Mercury?"

"The Mercury folded. And it's _hot_," Dean said again, eyes still shut.

"So we'll hit Starbucks." Sam turned away. "You'll get it iced. Let's go."

The alley looked like the warehouse smelled, desolation Sam associated with nuclear fallout or Croatoan quarantines. At least the air was sweeter outside, dawn throwing its rosy, forgiving flush on the cracked pavement and bombed-out looking municipal ruins. A train whistle rose from the tracks by the old Roosevelt Hotel. It was a faraway sound, a lonesome sound that pleased Sam because it somehow finished the scene. He snuck a sideways glance but couldn't figure Dean's expression. Got caught looking, jerked his eyes down fast. They walked without talking for a while. Their footsteps echoed as through a canyon.

Then Dean said, "We could be the last people alive out here." He'd slowed up enough to make Sam turn back, and the light in Dean's face this time didn't puzzle him in the least.

"Come on," Sam told him, pulse jacking. He sped up but Dean was faster. Sam looked up from his feet to find Dean square in front of him, walking backwards as fluently as he did forwards. Dean was the only person Sam knew who could do it quite like that.

"Like the rest of the world just disappeared or something," Dean went on. He stretched his arms above his head, behind his back. Lowered his voice as if somebody might overhear. "What's this remind you of?"

"Dean," Sam said. Begged. It hurt to swallow and he stopped walking, folded his arms over his chest as though that could keep Dean out or hold himself in. He didn't want to look at Dean's eyes. They were the only color Sam could find in any direction, livid like Dean was sick or burning from the inside out. Sam didn't want to catch that soul-and-body fire, didn't want to _scratch the wall_ or scratch the itch he knew sent curious cats to Hell. _No don't think about that, don't-_

"Sammy," said Dean, stepping too close. Heat was leaping off him and that salt tang, Christ. Sam couldn't not look.

"What part of this is fun for you?" Sam brought it out rough. "The dead body? The ghetto, some serial killer running around? He could be watching us right now."

His brother just smiled at that, laughing soft. It was ridiculous, Sam knew. Quaint, to imagine any murderer could be as dangerous as either of them. As dangerous as the two of them together. He thought of a line from some movie, _We are the verb. We are not the object._

The wind lifted again and Sam started to feel it, too, that racing fever he couldn't keep at bay much longer. His hands were shaking against his ribs. The chance that Dean might catch them shaking hit him hard, made it ten times sweeter and worse.

Sam said, "Anaheim." Anaheim was the place Dean was remembering, that summer Sam was 15. There'd been no curfew with Dad tracking a skinwalker up in La Mirada and they'd run like wildcats through canyons, up and down the strip in hotwired convertibles and sacking out in rundown warehouses every night for seven weeks. They hurled rocks to watch old window glass go nova by starlight, stole beer from chain marts. Dean smoked weed in tinfoil. Sam's nails and feet were always dirty.

And every afternoon that Anaheim summer, without fail, they'd trained: tracked each other through blasted warehouse mazes and alleys just like these, every sense bent on stalking, eluding, crouched in shadow and pacing the prey by trails of sweat or blood beads in the dust. "You always caught me," Sam finished, words dragged out. "Man, no matter how far I ran, no matter where I hid you always..."

"Yeah, I did," Dean said, low, "I always." He pressed in so slow, mouth opening on Sam's neck.

"What-" Sam jerked back then swayed forward again, dizzy as a drowning man who can't tell if he's kicking to the surface. "This is nuts, come on."

"_You_ come on." Dean took him by the hips, pulled them together where their dicks were stiffening so fast it hurt. He leaned in and whispered, "Remember?"

The things they'd done. How could Sam forget? He shook, knowing Dean could feel it, could smell the sudden sweat at his nape and hear the little _whuf_ of breath driven out like he'd been punched. _What you did to me_, Sam thought. _When you caught me._

He gave Dean a solid shove. "This isn't Anaheim," he said. "We're not kids out on a school night, Dean. Don't fuck around with me."

"I'm not-is that what you think I'm doing?" Dean was staring and breathing hard. He crowded back in, wouldn't let Sam think or come up for air, fingers already hooking the waistband of Sam's jeans. Sam slapped them away but Dean just snaked them back down. "I wasn't fucking around then and I'm not now," he said, rough. The fingers dipped to brush the damp plane of Sam's stomach, stroked it in a circle. The muscles there fluttered and leapt. His eyes never left Sam's. He'd curled a palm around Sam's neck to pull their faces close and he had them both gone for it now, just totally desperate. "Yeah," he was muttering, "you remember it, Sam, you remember-"

"Goddamn you," Sam said. It was more than he could bear. "God_damn_ you, Dean," and he fumbled the button of his fly open, ignoring the sudden nettle of tears and the urge to dig his thumbs into Dean's windpipe until he quit breathing. They were grappling, the heel of Dean's hand rubbing hard at Sam's dick inside his shorts, Sam jerking against the sandy palm and Dean's smothering mouth working hot against his throat, his ear, his open lips.

Sam shook his head free, fought up for a breath. "Want me to run?" he said, hating the willing wheedling sound of it, hating himself, the both of them. He tensed half-away with a hand gripping Dean's wrist. "Want it? So you can catch me? I'll run."

"I bet you will," Dean said. Like tar. He stumbled them backwards with a hand on his chest, the other still working between Sam's legs. "You were always like this, Sammy," he went on as they lurched under the arch of an old garage. Parked Sam right up against a heap of dirty cinderblocks and just tore at him, pants down around his thighs now and Sam half-sprawled on the stones, head dropping back. "This was always the score, making me work for it. Make me run for hours just to get my hands on you," he panted into Sam's mouth, ripping at the neckline of Sam's shirt. "Make sure I was hot out of my fuckin' head for it, and then you'd _fight_. Slashed all the brakelines, didn't you, little shit, never pulled a punch, bloody noses and busted knuckles-"

He dragged himself off Sam's mouth, lurched down his belly in a trail of spit, sucking hot to the fork of his crotch and shutting his eyes when Sam's hand fisted in his hair to yank him down those last few inches.

"Rolling in dirt," Dean said. Sucked hard at the head of Sam's dick, nipped and licked up the red swell of it and back down, fingers splayed at the base to still his hips. Sam ground his ass into the stone, groaning. "Held you down and you'd beg, swear, split my lip, throw me off till I caught you and pinned you again. Oh Christ, you tried everything." He looked up and their eyes met. "Except saying no."

And he sank his mouth down on the cock, not sparing Sam little catches of teeth, little scratches of nail back behind the balls where he was pressing and kneading. Sam's hand tightened enough to rip his hair out by the roots but Dean just worked him, moaning deep and too soft to hear but not too soft to feel, not too soft at all.

"_You made me_," Sam said because Dean couldn't, raw in the throat, hips pumping up and up, so close, "held me down. Made me come for hours, come in your mouth, in your hand, in my pants. You did it to me. You d-" He broke off, choking a little as if his were the mouth stuffed full. "Dean, fuck, oh _fuck_-"

Dean's hand rolled at his balls and his lips tightened, tongue sliding under and up, and it was all Sam needed. He arched and shot hard into Dean's mouth, sharp deafening spurts coming one after another, hand slipping out of Dean's hair and every nerve dead except the ones pulsing at his groin and forcing this unbelievable pleasure.

Dean was swallowing, hungry ripples milking Sam through it blind. _Ah ah ah_ were a tickle at Sam's throat but nothing either of them could actually hear. Finally he twitched through the last of it and Dean pulled off with a harsh breath. Sam's vision cleared. He lifted his head and Dean was still down there, smeary and swollen-mouthed near where Sam's dick lay wet, half- hard against his thigh. Each let the other stare for a few seconds.

Then Sam's knee slammed into Dean's jaw and it all kicked back into gear: Dean reeling back with a curse, Sam lunging up after him to chase the blow with a left to the cheekbone, a sharp cut to the mouth so Sam could feel that full lower lip spread and split under his knuckle, blood mingling with Sam's own come.

Dean fought silently, reared up and swept a leg under Sam's so they tumbled down together. Sam caught a rock in the back and barked in pain. He struck out again but Dean had his wrists now, pinned them above Sam's head so all he could do was squirm, legs too tangled with Dean's for leverage. Dean looked down at him with eyes so black he might have been possessed.

It was everything Sam remembered, everything he'd waited for these cold years on the road. He crushed his mouth up into Dean's then shifted in his grasp, squirming on the rubble until he was on his stomach. Arched his head back and his ass into Dean's dick like brass in his jeans. Dean made a hoarse noise and ground down, hips jerking, too far gone to even unzip himself. Four strokes against Sam and he was coming in his pants, spurting lightheaded and crazy with Sam's wrists slippery in his grip. He rode it out sprawled full-weight on top, each wet, messy pump chafing Sam's bare dick on the rough stone until Sam thought his eyes would cross from pain, or what passed for pain at this moment.

For a long time there was nothing but heavy breath. Dean had rolled slightly off so that Sam could roll, too, and they lay curled together on crumbling stone, Sam's back against Dean's chest in the dark dusty warmth of the garage.

"I don't understand why now," Sam said. No anger in it but something bubbling deep, voice of the Sam Dean had mourned for a year. "Dad came back that August, and after that you never." He tried again. "When you came to get me at Stanford, that night, I thought..."

"Yeah, when we fought." Dean pressed his mouth to the back of Sam's neck. "Did you want me to?"

Sam flinched. "With Jess in the next room?" They didn't speak for a minute or so, Dean waiting. "Yeah," Sam said, finally, quiet. "I wanted you to. I don't get-why now."

Dean stood up and tugged at his shirt. Smoothed his hair, palmed the blood from his lip. Gave Sam a hand and they straightened themselves half-blind in the shadows. Walked blinking into the glare of the alley.

"We stayed there," Dean said, nodding up the street.

"Hm?"

"The Roosevelt," Dean said. "That fall, after Anaheim. We passed through Detroit and Dad went off on a job for a couple nights. So you and I crashed at the Roosevelt while he was gone. Remember?"

"Not really. Didn't the Roosevelt Hotel close, like, thirty years ago?" Sam asked.

"We stayed there anyway. It was incredible. Just totally trashed, falling down around our ears...bums, rats, the works. But a building like that." Dean was smiling a little. "It's got great _bones_. As long as it's standing it's gonna look great. It's gonna be someplace you'd wanna stay, even if you can't live there. Know what I mean?"

Dean's hand touched Sam's wrist as they walked, quick brush against skin that would sport dark purple lashes of bruise in forty minutes.

Sam said, "I know what you mean."


End file.
